


Blue Thorns

by OpalEyes2112



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, BAMF Greg Lestrade, BAMF Mycroft Holmes, BAMF Sherlock Holmes, Banshees, Dark Mycroft Holmes, F/F, Faeries - Freeform, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gargoyles, Hybrid Molly Hopper, M/M, Mages, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Protective Mycroft, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24709372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpalEyes2112/pseuds/OpalEyes2112
Summary: Sherlock stumbles on a case that not only proves to be a 20 out of 10, but the killer has an MO that seems impossible. After all, it's not every day murder victims are found with multi-coloured roses that appear to have grown from inside their bodies. The case becomes even more bewildering when the world's greatest consulting detective catches the killer and unwittingly wins a contest throwing him into a world of magic and beings he thought were impossible.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Original Character, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade
Comments: 17
Kudos: 20





	1. Killer Fertilizer

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! With a couple characters I drew some inspiration from the 1932 film The Blood of a Poet which is artsy, weird, and awesome film (in my opinion, it's definitely not everyone's cup of tea).  
> This fic is un beta'd so if there are any mistakes please let me know. All feel free to leave comments and constructive criticism.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock catches a killer who's been terrorizing and confounding all of London.

Sherlock wondered the streets of London in a decidedly unwise manner; buzzed from whiskey and with no destination in mind. All he wanted was to get away from it all: the memories and the responsibilities of the rank he’d unwittingly acquired.

Sherlock paused in his pre-dawn prowl to lean against the bridge railing feeling faint from what had all transpired just twelve hours ago. He’d been hunting a serial killer with a penchant of stuffing orange and green roses into the mouths of his victims. Or so he thought. The autopsy results showed him that the roses begun in the victims. And that had turned the rating from a seven to a seventy. How were they able to make the roses grow that quickly inside their victims?

_The world’s only consulting detective became obsessed with the case and eventually found a clue that led him to a flat in Mayfair. In the lobby of the complex Sherlock’d had passed a group of strangely dressed people he’d assumed to be those frauds pretending to be psychics what with their talk of symbolism and spirits. As he ran towards the flat they’d looked at him curiously, but the detective had forced it out of his mind he had a killer to catch._

_And by Jove did he catch him! The bastard had been standing over a statuesque woman with a hammer poised above his head with a livid expression racing across his fine features. Sherlock had pointed his pistol at the man and went through the procedure of_ Drop the Hammer and Move Away from the Woman. The killer had complied almost instantly, but then in the next moment he was not even a meter away from Sherlock holding an intricate dagger.

They’d fought briefly with the man managing to wrestle away the detective’s gun, but Holmes was able to twist the dagger out of his grip before the murderer charged at him moving much faster than should’ve been possible. Then…then it had been pure instinct. Sherlock had rammed the dagger into his chest, right through his heart. It had been the craziest moment of his life, but then it went beyond sanity when the woman started to laugh like a hyena.

“By all the gods!” The lady giggled covering her mouth with an alabaster hand. “You killed him! You! A regular human! You actually killed him! Heeehheeee!”

_Sherlock looked at her like she’d lost all her marbles and then some. What in the hell was going on here? Shock-that was it! The woman was going into shock._

 _He had made his way to the woman’s side as he desperately tried to come up with some way to settle her down._ Tea? Scones? Is there a kettle in this flat? Must be…

_When he finally got to her Sherlock pulled out his mobile to call Lestrade to tell him to get over here as quickly as possible and help him when the woman gripped his wrist causing him to drop the phone. But it wasn’t her strength that made his mind become a whirring carousel, it was the texture of her skin. It was smooth to the touch, but it didn’t give way like human skin. It couldn’t because the “skin” was actually a type of stone!_

_Sherlock’s mind was lost as he tried to refute what his own senses were telling him. This couldn’t be happening, it was impossible! Stone was an inorganic material and couldn’t move on it’s own. Rocks couldn’t talk, laugh, or bark out what seemed to orders in a foreign tongue to one of the fraud’s he’d passed in the lobby._

_The data of his surroundings conflicting with what he’d known-thought-to be true proved to be too much for his mind which oh so graciously decided to settle for unconsciousness instead of dealing with it._

_Sherlock remembered the rest of the day in a blur. He’d woken up to find the group of eccentrics whispering amongst themselves as he’d slept on a sofa still in the same flat as the murderer. The stone woman flitted about them, and when she noticed he’d awaken she’d hauled a woman to his side._

_“This is Faustine L’hiver,” the statue lady said as she pointed from the (was it even possible?) stranger woman to him then vice versa. “You can call her Froid. Froid this is…Sherlock Holmes.”_

_At mention of his name the woman Froid’s cloudy green eyes seemed to brighten, but her smile was…off._

_“I did not know that Mycroft has a brother!” Sherlock frowned at the squealing woman. First of all, not many people knew Mycroft and second, the list of people would talk about his brother as if they knew him personally was shorter than his patience level. Then to top it all off he doubted that Myc would ever associate himself with a woman that wore birch twigs that vaguely resembled a crown._

_Sherlock couldn’t help it, he laughed._

_“What? What is it Mr. Holmes?”_

_“YOU!” He was now almost certain that he’d lost his sanity. “This! This is impossible! That woman by your side isn’t human…the man that tried to murder her he…he moved too fast even if he was experiencing an adrenaline rush.”_

_This outburst was met with pity. A fuck ton of pity and another storm of whispers. Sherlock glared at the huddled people before fixating it at Froid’s whose face roiled with a dozen emotions before holding onto something he hadn’t expected._

_“Mycroft didn’t tell you.” Suddenly she grabbed his arm and his body shook with the icy cold that flooded his body and ripped his mind from the brink of insanity with a vengeance. “And here I thought-hoped…”_

_“Hoped what?”_

_“Hoped that you knew and decided to participate.”_

_“Participate in what? Are you intelligent enough to explain things or will I have to figure out everything for myself?”_

_Sherlock realized a little too late that he’d been rude but considering his circumstances he believed a little rudeness was necessary. Yet despite the amount of acid he’d thrown into it most everyone seemed unfazed by it, except for the statue lady who smiled and whispered something to Froid who frowned._

_“You_ do _know what your brother does yes?”_

_“Yes he works for the British Government.”_

_“Ahh, yes. He does that too however he is also the Supreme Mage of the United Kingdom.”_

What the fuck have I gotten myself into? Supreme Mage?!

_His face must have been showing his thoughts because Froid nodded with a smile._

_“Yes and there are other mages with other responsibilities-and other beings of course!” the woman carried on. “For example, you just killed the last competitor for role and rank of High Investigator of London Magical Crimes.”_

_“Sounds pretty pretentious doesn’t it?”_

He remembered fainting a second time and waking up in his flat with Froid and the statue lady whose name he learned was Moliette. They had explained that the killings he’d seen had been part of a contest for the position and the powers invested in it. Last contestant standing took it after being sworn in to protect and uphold and blah blah blah. He’d unwittingly took first place by stabbing the bastard who’d been trying to kill Moliette because she’d refused to support him.

Oh and because he’d already been a detective and the best at it the magic was already infusing itself to him. And oh by the way your family bloodlines have powerful latent magic so that should also start activating. He never wanted to punch someone so much in his life, but they seemed to have sensed their welcome was over and in the next second he was alone in his flat.

Sherlock looked out onto the Thames which was starting to reflect the first rays of sunlight. It was beautiful, peaceful, and rational. A weight was on his chest and he knew what he had to do even though he hated it. He had to talk to Mycroft. Had to ask him if he knew someone named Froid, watch his reactions, and stow them away in his mind palace for obsessive examination.

The detective stayed there watching the sunrise when the sight of the rose and saffron sky seemed to yell at him to get some sleep and call his brother later.

Dragging his feet towards his flat Sherlock realized belatedly that he’d never managed to call Geb Lestrade to tell him about the murderer. What he definitely didn’t notice was how his surroundings blurred. Sherlock was happy enough to reach Baker Street and so tired was he that his senses were confused as to how he was now in his bedroom even though he didn’t remember walking up the steps.

The fatigued detective took off his shirt and trousers before flopping into the bed with a contented sigh.

The sunlight filtering into his bedroom and the shadows they created told him it was 2 PM when he woke up. Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever slept this long, but deciding he needed it after having such stupid dreams. His memories from the previous day were a blur. The detective recalled that he had gone to Saint Bart’s and was waiting for the results of the latest autopsy when he noticed one of the relatives of the victim carrying a residence key with them-apparently a key the victim had given them just the day before. After three questions Sherlock learned that the key was for a flat in Mayfair.

Sherlock had gone there, sprinted past a weird group-then…the dreams. Why could he only remember the dreams past that point? It was ludicrous.

He bolted out of bed and checked his phone. Three messages from Glen and one from…Mycroft?!

_Where are you? You said you found out where the murderer lives and I haven’t heard from you since – Lestrade._

_Sherlock? Please tell me you’re alright- Lestrade._

_Please tell me you’re okay-Lestrade_

Sherlock typed up a response feeling a pang of not-quite-guilt for putting Lestrade through unnecessary stress then sent another one telling him the killer’s address. He hoped they managed to catch him despite their flailing inefficiencies. He really wanted to know how the criminal had pulled off the murder via rapid growing roses.

Once he sent those texts, he looked at Mycroft’s but not before trying to do some quick meditative breathing exercise. It didn’t work.

_We need to talk. Can you meet me at the Diogenes at 6 today? – MH_

Sherlock snorted. What national emergency was so great that Mycroft needed his help? The little brother was typing up a text to tease him for whatever miscalculation the elder did when he got another text.

_How are you feeling? – MH_

The younger Holmes stared at the newest text and felt a bomb of anxiety hit him. If Mycroft was asking him how he was feeling things must be _extremely_ bad. Like I-may-have-accidentally-started-a-war-with-France bad. Or Mummy died bad. Something along those lines.

_What happened? – SH_

Sherlock only had to wait a minute before getting a reply.

_You don’t remember? – MH_

_I’ll send the car to pick you up at 5:30 – MH._

A creaking noise was coming from the mobile and he knew distantly that his grip on it was punishing.

What had he forgotten? _Mycroft…_ Sherlock groaned then strode into the sitting room where he grabbed his Strad and started playing.

Sweet notes filled the air hiding the scrambling of his mind to decipher what the hell Mycroft was on about. Was some cousin getting married? No, Mycroft wouldn’t bother him for that. As much as he hated it the only thing that seemed to make sense-well some sort of sense-was the dream he’d had.

Sherlock started chuckling. It’d been so ridiculous. All of it with Faustine or Froid or whatever she’d called herself, Moliette, and then…Mycroft being the _Supreme Mage of Great Britain. My mind may need extensive remodeling._

He’d waited until half hour before pick up then rushed to get ready and dressed in his usual. If he was going to be meeting his older brother after a day that wouldn’t know how to be sane if sanity had been smashed into it the detective needed to be comfortable!

He checked the clock, showing the time to be 5:29 PM, before he proceeding to stride down the stairs with a calm gait. Just ten seconds before the clock in his flat would strike 5:30 a black car with heavily tinted windows pulled up alongside him. At precisely half past 5 the car pulled away taking the world’s greatest consulting detective to the Diogenes Club where Mycroft waited with icy trepidation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magical Beings List
> 
> Banshees: Humanoids that traveled with the fey from their home world to Earth almost 500,000 years ago. They discovered that on Earth their physical traits were amplified and their precognition enhanced. 
> 
> Djinn: Fiery beings that inhabit a world in another universe. They rarely come to Earth, but when they do they appear as blue flames though they can take human form. 
> 
> Faeries: Humanoids that first arrived from their homeworld 500,000 years ago. Unlike the Banshees they are weaker on Earth, but are still immortal and are capable of a type of magic different from the kind that humans can harness. 
> 
> Gargoyles: All, but the first of their kind were once human. The transformation requires a blood transfusion to the designated human and takes roughly for the changes to complete. Gargoyles can manifest wings and not only are they the most resilient, but the fastest of all preternatural beings. 
> 
> Half-Fae (aka Leprechauns): Anyone of human and faerie ancestry. Most have little to no fey qualities beyond physical features. About 12% have increased lifespans and 5.6% are immortal. They are capable of both fey and human magic.
> 
> Mages: Humans that are either born or trained to be able to perform magic. Roughly half of all mages are only capable of minor feats or short bursts. The rest drastically vary in power and are eligible for special jobs if they can pass a contest or a series of tests. 
> 
> Solars: A preternatural race said to be descended from sun gods and goddesses. Their lifespans vary, but all are capable of photo and pyro-kinesis. Usually they become more powerful as they age. 
> 
> Vampires: The weakest of the preternatural races. They aren't killed by sunlight, but they are weakened by it. A rare few are capable of a type of magic that is infamous for being extremely difficult to control. 
> 
> Werewolves: One of the more benevolent species. In their human form they are only slightly stronger than most humans. In werewolf form they have much more powerful physical attributes. They are also strong telepaths and have an especially potent healing magic.


	2. Mycroft and His Umbrella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has his meeting with his older brother which has it's surprises and in more ways than one.

There were plenty of things Sherlock could do that most other people couldn’t-or wouldn’t want to-do. That included dragging himself from the backseat of the black car to his brother’s office door where the detective only had to wait a minute before the door swung open.

“What do you want dear brother?” Sherlock snapped as he strode into the room the door behind him closing- _that door just closed of its own accord._

He stared hard at the door aware of Mycroft making a dozen deductions from his outfit of choice alone, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away from it.

“Interesting contraption.” No way in hell was he letting his older brother know he was stumped with this trick.

“The door?” Mycroft dramatically raised a brow. “Hello to you too brother mine.”

“Tell me do you remember what happened yesterday? I heard from Scotland Yard they found the murderer dead from a knife wound…but you were nowhere to be found.”

_What? Idiots! They couldn’t find me if it my address hit them over the head._

“I was at my flat.” Mycroft’s lips twitched in a ghost of a smile and Sherlock found it a _little_ scary.

“Would you please sit-down Sherlock?” The question came out as a command and despite years of professional rebelliousness the detective found himself complying. His motion had been so sudden and without complaint it forced the younger brother to analyze the situation-and realized his hands wouldn’t raise themselves off of the arm rest.

“Thank you for your cooperation.” Now Mycroft was truly smiling as he rose from his chair behind the desk and hoisted his midnight umbrella. “We both know you weren’t at your flat.”

“In fact, Umbrael told me you-“ He swung the umbrella so now it hung upside down still wearing a satisfied smile. “-killed Marcus Drakkus. Truly impressive considering his skill. After all not every mage can survive to live to be 458 years old and also be the penultimate contender. Trust me when I say these contests can have a high body count.”

Sherlock’s mind had been whirling and now was threatening to crash itself at the nearest wall at an almost unfathomable speed. Mycroft-bloody, fucking Mycroft! -just said that…the person he’d killed was a mage! The detective started giggling like a lunatic, which at this point seemed to be the case. This wasn’t happening-this _couldn’t_ be happening.

Mycroft screwed his eyes shut at Sherlock’s reaction after waving a hand in front of his hysterical younger brother who seemed to have completely lost his marbles. His eyes fluttered open after he made a quick decision and just hoped he wasn’t going to get punched for it.

“Sherlock? Lock? Alright brother mine we maybe strange, but in this family we try to avoid being one hundred percent insane.” Mycroft’s hands clamped down on both of Sherlock’s. At first it seemed like nothing more than simple restraint, but after a few moments the close-to-mental-institution-Holmes felt a painful iciness rip through his body and then his mind. The plutonian chill froze his approaching insanity before smashing it to pieces before letting clarity lose from its prison.

The younger Holmes reared back his head as the sensations briefly overwhelmed him. His mind was anchored to the here and now with a force that was calculated and ultimately necessary.

“Myc turn off the AC in here it’s cold!”

Sherlock saw Mycroft wasn’t smiling anymore, rather those blue-grey eyes blazed with concern and sympathy.

“Look down Lock.”

_Look down? Look at wh…_ His clothes were coated with frost and the detective’s mind had to accept the reality of the situation. It couldn’t flee to insanity even if it wanted to.

“It…It happened.” Somehow Sherlock knew he didn’t need to specify what he was talking about. A part of him also cringed at sounding like an idiot.

“Yes. Moliette came to visit.” Mycroft set down his umbrella upside down on the floor. The umbrella must have been custom made since its remained vertical. _No flaws in the distribution of mass, either that or my brother’s good at balancing things._ “She told me you won the contest. Now you’re the High bloody Investigator of London Magical Crimes.”

“Unless of course you want to pass the position on to someone else.”

“Why would I Myc?” His reply seemed more appropriate for a venomous snake having had enough of a buffoon animal getting too close. “I may not have magic, but I don’t know anyone else besides you who does.”

“You do have magic.”

“What?”

“Really dear brother?” Mycroft’s eyes were wide with astonishment. “I do have cameras all over Baker Street and in your flat and I can assure you what I saw proved beyond a doubt you have a substantial amount of it.”

Sherlock’s bewilderment must have shown on his face because Mycroft continued with not a hint of exasperation.

“Did you notice anything unusual when you went to your flat to sleep?”

The younger Holmes scowled to hide the shock that was building up inside. Everything had been blurry on his walk back and then he’d somehow ended up in his bedroom even though he didn’t remember walking up the stairs. He’d put it down to being tired and not wanting to remember such a trivial act… _but what if I wasn’t on the staircase this morning? If all of this is real…genuine…whatever…is it possible I somehow bypassed all that?_

Sherlock finally answered. “I remember my environs seeming to be blurry and I don’t recall walking up the stairs of my flat.”

Mycroft smiled-and _did his umbrella just shake?_ He glanced at it more fully and caught just the slightest shivering motion before the umbrella stilled then glanced back at his brother.

“Everything was blurry brother mine because you’d unwittingly created what we-mages and other members of the Xenata species-call a tunnel. A warping of the dimensions that collapses them into lower values thus condensing the distance you must travel while unaffecting almost everything else. Neat trick really…as for the stairs you managed to avoid them by teleporting straight to your room. As for teleporting…best not to do it for distances greater than 10 kilometers.”

“Interesting. Now tell me brother since when is your umbrella a living being?” Mycroft raised a brow and his smile suddenly seemed shark-like.

“I guess the name gave it away. Would you like to meet them?”

“Them?” He was fine with one or two creatures, but anymore and he worried their images would get stuck in his Mind Palace.

“Singular they Umbrael is non-binary-or I guess gender-fluid to be more precise.”

Sherlock huffed like a dragon then nodded. Might as well meet the bastard who’d apparently been stalking him yesterday and it would also give him a good clue as to what he might see as the _High Investigator of London._

“Well old friend would you like to introduce yourself properly?” _Mycroft has a friend?!_

Sherlock’s astonishment at the term only surpassed it’s previous all-time high when the umbrella started shaking violently before launching itself a meter from the floor. It was like looking at mirage at first; visible one second then gone the next then back again and the image before them solidified into that a lithe humanoid with bizarre eyes.

“Hiya little brother!” The sauve black haired being waved with a Cheshire smile. “By the gods that was a wonderful stab right through the fucker’s chest!”

Mycroft looked like he wanted to warn them off, but decided it’d be pointless.

“I’d say it was nice to meet you too, but you have a thing for stalking me on my brother’s orders.”

“Nope! I just like stalking you in general. Lot more fun, especially yesterday!”

_I hope you’re not everywhere…Elsewise, I’m moving._

_Of course, I’m not! Protecting your brother’s more than an honour you know. The look on their faces when they realize bullets don’t work…it’s damn near orgasmic._

“ENOUGH!” Sherlock shouted and it took him aback when he realized the sound that came out was inhumanly deep. Even Mycroft looked a little worried.

“If I’m going to do this job and I will because it’s probably loads more interesting than dealing with the normal people in Scotland Yard.“ He caught Mycie suddenly finding his fingernails very interesting. “However, I need some background information in order to be effective.”

“First.” Sherlock nodded at the shape shifter. “What are you? A familiar, demon, angel, what?”

“None of those things actually.” Umbrael smiled revealing serrated teeth and turned to the elder Holmes with a deference that surprised the detective. “You’d probably explain it better than me.”

Mycroft inclined his head briefly at the strange being then his gaze focused on Sherlock.

“Umbrael’s the last surviving Faerie in Europe,” Mycroft said solemnly. “At least outside of the Scandinavian countries. Their survival is a family tradition that was lost for 80 years. Well…”

“…actually, Umbrael here is a relative…of sorts. What do you recall of Sherrinford Holmes?”

Sherlock barely remembered his grandparents’ names, but the name clicked. “Nothing…wait. Mother’s great-uncle? The one whose disappearance was never solved? Vanished in 1910?”

Mycroft nodded as a stormy look passed over the faerie’s face.

“Umbrael is…”

“Sherrinford’s my younger brother. Younger half-brother. He saved my life and I saved his.”

_Is? Is? Present tense…meaning Mother’s great-uncle’s alive. That would make him 139 or 140 years old!_

Sherlock was at a loss for words. The detective put his head between his legs and forced himself to take meditative breaths.

“You know he does remind me of Sherrin. They even have the same eyes-always changing colour. Except Sherrin’s also turn completely black.”

“Hmm…how _is_ he doing?”

“Don’t know. I haven’t heard from him for 6 months.” Mycroft must have made a face because the faerie started laughing.

“If he can survive the hell-hole of both world wars then he doesn’t need me to be looking over his shoulder. Besides…last I checked he was hiking through Bhutan.”

When the detective lifted his head they turned back to face him.

“How are you feeling Lock?”

“I have questions.”

“For who?” Mycroft leaned back as he steepled his fingers.

“Both of you.”

Mycroft and the shape-shifting faerie exchanged looks then his brother gestured for him to continue.

“You!” Sherlock pointed at Umbrael. “You’re the last faerie alive in Britain at least. How’s it that you’re alive and no others?”

The faerie’s eyes became the colour of milk.

“I’m strong-one of the stronger faerie’s out there.” They replied with words coming out like there was ash in their mouth. “Alright, but remember you asked for the long story! What you should keep in mind is that faerie’s are almost extinct. Roughly 900 of us left in the whole world. First we were weakened by the closing of the portals from our home world to Earth around…11th century AD. Then the Industrial Revolution hit.”

Umbrael’s eyes turned into a mixture of grey and maroon. “Faeries need to living organisms and clean air and water to survive. Like humans, but more so…think of us as environmental measuring sticks. The more trees, the cleaner the environment, the stronger the fey population is. When the Industrial era hit it took out the vast majority of fey and those of that survived were in rougher shape than we once. In Europe it was the worst-the human population exploded and the deforestation also killed off a lot of us.”

“By 1790 the last faerie kingdom in western Europe decided to start breeding with humans to produce half-fey. An insurance that, at least, some of their culture would survive. By 1860 my mother and I were the only pure fey left and she feared the end of our lineage. So she found Clark Holmes, they got married, and bam! Sherrinford was born in 1865 and our mother lived only five more years. I looked after Sherrin because Clark was about as reliable as a drunk squirrel. Sherrin became adept at science and the human-kind of magic through his aunt’s tutelage. He was 22 when I was on the verge- “

Sherlock watched the faerie’s eyes turn a pale yellow that somehow conveyed that this was an extremely painful part of his life and here Mycroft took up the tale.

“Our relative performed a double layered procedure. He used his position to obtain two pints of gargoyle blood according to his journal and performed a blood transfusion which would bolster Umbrael’s strength. Then he damn near killed himself by binding Umbrael to the entirety of Great Britain.”

“It cost him his arms, legs, _and_ fertility.”

Now he was extremely confused; Sherrinford had been a notable inspector up until 1910. You couldn’t become a noteworthy crime fighter without limbs. Sherlock was starting to crave a smoke.

“He had arms and legs though…”

“It’s has, but whatever.” Umbrael waved a hand before he smiled with pride. “I gave him my original set then managed to regrow mine. Took a month to grow back completely.”

“You can regrow parts of your body?”

“Like a plant or starfish whichever is easier for you to understand.”

“And you’re bffs with Mycroft why?”

They exchanged looks and this time his brother answered.

“Sherrinford taught me how to control my magic when it showed itself when I was 19. Late-bloomers and skipping generations seems to be the only option in our family. Umbrael and I didn’t meet until I-like you-unknowingly got myself caught up in the contest for the crown so to speak.”

“Any more questions?”

“I need a smoke.”

Sherlock leaned on the balcony railing savoring the smoke filling his lungs. Mycroft gave him a cigar in celebration of his new position and despite it all, or perhaps because of it, he didn’t feel afraid. He felt excited-and okay-maybe a little bit nervous. The new Investigator didn’t even know he had magical abilities yesterday and he was certain that the icy spell his brother had put on him was the only thing keeping him from the psychiatric ward.

_Sooo much data. I need at least another day to process this._

“I made arrangements so you’ll not have to start your job until Monday.” Mycroft’s voice was clear as bell and the news was more than welcome. Sherlock suspected he was going to owe his brother a lot by the time Monday rolled around.

“Thank you, Mycroft.” He whispered as his shoulders sagged with relief.

“Umbrael and I’ll take care of things until you start. Do you want to learn more about your team or should I wait?”

“ _Team?!_ What team?”

His brother walked until they stood side by side and Sherlock didn’t need to look at him to know he was wincing.

“I’ll send over the info on Saturday.”

“Mycroft…” Sherlock growled. “Tell me about this team.”

“The team is your back-up and assistants if you will and it-do you really want to learn about this now?”

“YES!” Mycroft’s eyes widened and then he shook his head in that okay-you-said-so manner.

“Your team is composed of three people: Moliette whom you already know, then Lestrade who’s a gargoyle and Molly Hopper who is literally one-of-a-kind.” His brother finished his recital and glanced at Sherlock.

“Lock, are you alright? You look paler than usual.”

The detective’s mind was screaming in the agony of a thousand suns. No wonder his brother had looked sheepish when he’d called the Scotland Yard full of normal people.

Sherlock proceeded to dump his cigar in the garbage can strode back into Mycroft’s office and poured him a generous amount of stupidly expensive whiskey. Which he then downed in full view of his horrified audience of two.


	3. Bad Umbrella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock awakens to find a new day with new answers provided by Mycie. Umbrael lands themself in Sherlock's list of people to tick off.

Sherlock woke with a headache but judging by the number of tumblers in front of him it could’ve been much worse.

“Careful brother mine.” Mycroft’s voice clawed against his ear drums causing the detective to stuff him head into pillows.

 _What the hell happened?_ The younger Holmes remembered only finishing his second drink after which he thought he blacked out. Now Sherlock was apparently in one of Mycroft’s guest bedrooms with his brother situated on a antique chair next table laden with a full breakfast complete with a silver tea pot and three cups.

“Myc…fuck…” The detective head started pounding once he was sitting upright. “What happened?”

His elder bit his lip as folded his arm neatly before answering. “You were on your way to becoming drunk which, given your underdeveloped magic, could’ve led to absolute ruin of Diogenes. So…Umbrael knocked you out.”

“With what?” His head felt like it had been whacked with a wooden club.

“Telepathy.” Mycroft grimaced. “For future reference brother mine note that telepathy is rare-except amongst the werewolves and gargoyles. Among the pure-breed Faerie it’s nigh impossible, except for Umbrael.”

“Where is…owww.” The whimper was embarrassing and worse-it was in front of Mycroft, but his brother looked at him with worry tearing at him before he got up then sat alongside Sherlock.

“May I help?” The older Holmes held out his hands which the detective realized were marked with thin silver lines.

Sherlock snorted, but nodded his consent all the same. “Are you a healer Myc?”

“Sort of. I’m the Supreme Mage of Great Britain after all…” His brother’s hands felt cool on his temples. It wasn’t the arctic cold from the spell or whatever that kept him sane- this was more like water in early spring. The sensation was pleasant, soothing…then he heard the noise. At first the detective thought it was a hallucination, but something twisting inside him reacted to the complex dance of high notes played by a violin and piano. Then it occurred to him; it was making the pain lessen as the song went on and just before it arrived at a crescendo the pain vanished entirely.

“Feeling better little brother?”

Sherlock offered him a smile in response.

“Wonderful.”

“Thank you, Mycroft,” the younger Holmes whispered just as he noticed a levitating tray of breakfast delicacies and a steaming cuppa. It settled gently on his lap soon followed by silverware and a linen napkin. Sherlock recognized a banana crêpe, eggs benedict, and an avocado item he was sure had a long name. He dug in with gusto feeling hungrier now that his head was no longer pounding.

“Always dear brother.” The government official smiled before sipping his own tea.

“Hmm…this is good! Where _is_ the Supreme Umbrella?”

“Umbrael’s in his flat.” Mycroft set the cup aside-or rather-on thin air. “I suspect he’s notifying Sherrinford of the turn of events.”

_That_ reminded him of the half-dozen or so questions he’d wanted to ask.

“I have questions.”

“I know you do. You’re free to charge ahead with them.”

Sherlock leaned forward to fix the older Holmes’ ocean blue eyes with his indecisive ones before starting to speak at a rapid-fire pace. “Sherrinford vanished in 1910. He was investigating a murder when it occurred to his colleagues they hadn’t seen him in four days. They went to his flat, they found nothing missing except a suit, a tie, and a pair of shoes. The clothes he’d worn since he’d last been seen. They searched all over London and eventually found his tie and one shoe in a small pool of blood. Approximately 3 pints worth based on the photographs. So…tell me, what the hell happened?”

Mycroft had been listening to his rant with a curious glint in his eyes and a grin tugging at his lips.

“Sherrinford did vanish. His situation had grown harder for him to fight and decided to fake his death. Sort of,” the older brother replied with a grimace. “With one key detail: he slit his own wrists. If what Umbrael told me is true, then it was the faerie in Sherrin that refused to die and so his own magic healed him before he lost too much.”

The world’s greatest consulting detective didn’t want know what to make of it. Yet. He needed more data and what the hell was up with their great-great uncle?

“Situation? What situation? According to you he performed a world breaking spell-thingy that cost him his limbs so he got new ones and in 1910 he had a _situation_?”

Sherlock realized a little too late that whatever had happened was pretty damn sensitive. Mycroft’s face was utterly impassive, but _something_ was off. It wasn’t the hovering teacup-it was floating happily in the air, it was something else.

_N_ ot _a warning, a caution. A Here Be Danger sign and it’s not telepathic or even magical._

“If I tell you you must swear to me that you’ll never tell anyone-unless absolutely necessary. _Definitely_ don’t tell Umbrael I told you.”

_Promises like these are supposed to be forever, but this one’ll probably last all of five weeks._

“I pro-“Sherlock’s mouth clamped shut. His hands flew to his jaw and facial muscles, but it seemed near impossible for there to be damage. Unless it was some old injury that was somehow missed for months? Even years?

“You’re fine little brother.” The younger Holmes’ face swung up to find Mycroft’s gaze bearing an intensity that bordered on scary. “Interesting actually. I only worked with your predecessor and wasn’t certain the trait was a one-time deal or that you’d be spared it being my brother.”

“What trait?” The detective yelped, surprising himself with his own voice.

His brother practically leaped from the chair before meandering over to Sherlock’s side.

“The previous Inspector couldn’t lie to me either,” Mycroft remarked with a wistful sigh. “As your superior and Supreme Mage at that it’s impossible for you to _say_ you promise something if you don’t think or intend to keep it.”

_Of bloody course!_ Sherlock groaned. Not being able to lie to his brother was just asking for disaster. _Who or what comes up with these damn rules?_

The Supreme Mage, also seemingly telepathic, decided to elucidate. “It’s a spell I utilized when I came into my office. I decided it would be wise to keep all subordinates from being able to lie to me or at least _knowingly_ lie.”

“So you what? Cursed me?”

“No,” Mycroft huffed in impatience. “It’s a spell though I prefer to call it my insurance policy. It’s a spell on the position you hold.”

“Can I tell still tell a lie?”

“You have my permission to test it.”

“I love people.”

“I’m impressed! Okay-so-you can lie just not about something I already know or make promises you can’t keep. Try again?”

“I’d rather…” Sherlock stopped his muttering and dug into his breakfast again. Mycroft opened his mouth to spout something, but was interrupted when a whirlpool of multi-coloured gases and black bolts of electricity formed just a few paces from the tea set.

“-Well…he’s back to talking, but he’s not liable to join us in the foreseeable future.” The faerie’s voice boomed from the depths of the vortex then became gentler as they neared the boundary separating whatever hell they’d visited and the bedroom. “How’s the new and completely inexperienced High Investigator of London Magical Crimes?”

“First law I want to enact: no more pompous titles. Next thing I want to learn how the hell you did that.”

“Good luck with the first one.” Umbrael smirked and the humanity of the motion felt surreal against the backdrop of swirling magic that look like the storms savaging Neptune. Then it was gone in the next blink-along with the tunnel. “Second one? Sorry lad. My magic is an entirely different breed than yours.”

Sherlock growled as another wave of confusion threatened to make him scream in frustration and thankfully his brother intervened.

“There are several different types of magic,” Mycroft explained as his voice became that of polished marble. Oddly, the detective felt like he was surrounded by the smooth stone and perceive the coolness of it on his skin. “Faeries possess Uen, which is what they call the magic of their homeworld, and what we call EUM which stands for extra-universal magic. Or, if you really want to be traditional, the term to call it is wild magic.”

It took Sherlock a moment to realize the chortle was coming from Umbrael who was doubled over holding their chest.

What came out of the magical umbrella’s mouth next sounded like a cello playing next to a harp with a whale assisting as the background instrument. The detective’s head spun trying to make sense of it, but apparently Mycroft understood it if his shifting expression was anything to go by.

“I’m well aware of the lack of creativity.”

“Did you bring back the books I suggested?” Mycroft questioned him with a searching gaze. The younger Holmes couldn’t see any books on the faerie, but with everything that seemed possible so far Umbrael could have the entire Library of Alexandria hidden in their right pocket.

“Yes!” They snapped their fingers (the gesture seemed to be for show) and four texts appeared on Sherlock’s lap like-screw it.

He gazed at the volumes which varied in size, age, and page number united only by their overall topic. One of the books looked like something plundered from a Roman temple. The others looked more or less

The titles read: _Preternatural Biology, Magic & It’s Different Types, Other Universes & Dimensions, _and _Xenata History & Politics. _It wasn’t the titles though that intrigued him the most, though the third text made him certainly gave him pause. It was the authors and the dates written on their first pages.

_Xenata History & Politics _was written by two people named Zyllaneh and Jhalal who made a note of this being the second edition (the first edition having been only five books sent out in 1097 AD). Apparently there were only twenty of the second edition, but no worries this was an updated version from 1897 AD. _Who needs 21 st century revisions when the internet is so helpful? Not!_

_Other Universes & Dimensions _was weirder than anything else in the pile (so far). First, the paper the ink was on wasn’t from any type of tree he was familiar with. It was mottled lavender and electric blue and its aroma was reminiscent of Mummy’s Cestrum nocturnum. Mycroft saw his perplexed expression and decided an explanation was in order.

“That book was written by Jean-Claude of Nîmes.” His stormy blue eyes followed Sherlock’s examination of the volumes. “He’s been traveling for over a century. Or maybe not. It’s hard to communicate with someone in another universe.”

“He’s trapped, isn’t he?”

“Happily trapped! First time he got stuck in the Perpetual Worlds he was there for 75 years. Next time he dove right in with Uunimakalyanek, ahh you don’t know her, but she’s a daughter of the Faerie Queen in Indonesia.”

Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes. _A critically endangered species and they still have a queen._

He gestured towards the other two volumes. The author’s name was emblazoned in silver calligraphy.

“Faustine Ivess? Is she…the same person as Faustine L’hiver?”

“Yes, my dear brother the very same. She was once one of the most prominent people in Europe and she still manages an enchanted estate.”

“People, not mage.” The younger man couldn’t help pointing out the different term his brother vocalized.

“Even in the circles of normal society the Ivess family was very prominent.” Mycroft lectured to the room while Umbrael leaned against the wall watching their conversation weave itself. “They possess an enchanted estate and were earls and countesses. Faustine is the last of the family. She’s a also a powerful mage bolstered by her estate. Beautiful place and fascinating. I think even you would like to pay a visit.”

“Does she allow experiments? Or murders to take place on her precious estate?”

“First one yes. Second one you’re too late by 181 years.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock mumbled as he considered the textbooks in front of him. He could read them anytime. The data he’d find was undoubtedly important, but he’d rather start practicing his magic (good heavens that was a weird thought). And who better to teach him than Mycroft the older, annoyingly overprotective brother and the bloody Supreme Mage of the entire country?

“What day is it?”

Mycroft made a show of checking his pocket-watch. “9:37 am, Thursday.”

The detective groaned before he threw what he hoped was his most threatening glare at the faerie. He’d been unconscious for more than 16 hours from their telepathic attack. No wonder he still felt slightly disorientated.

“I’m going to get dress- “Somehow his brother had already known what Sherlock had been going to ask and had taken charge of the situation.

“Anthea already brought over some of your clothes and your hygiene tools.” The British Government smiled at him warmly. “They’re in the dressing room over there-“ he pointed to a door on the opposite side of the room “and the other door in that room leads to the bathroom.”

_Big brother still knows me better than I know myself._

 _“_ How long will you be able to teach me?”

“I’ve taken a holiday as it were,” his brother politely informed him before exchanging a knowing look with Umbrael. The ancient being was now watching Sherlock with unblinking eyes that seemed to span a myriad of colours before settling on burning potassium. “Nothing short of a national emergency will cut it short. And just in case, Plan B will be to have Umbrael’ll teach you.”

“How? You just said faeries have a different _species_ of magic or something.”

“You really think I’m so much as an idiot to not pick up anything after spending decades with the one of the world’s most powerful mages?” The faerie’s eyes abruptly turned a yellowish green that reminded him of sulfur specimens he kept in a drawer.

The detective opened and closed his mouth with no noise coming out and decided the best action would be to flee to the bathroom and get ready for his training exercises. When he slid into the over-sized closet the younger Holmes realized his brother and his friend conversing.

“…ford is…hard to say. He’s still broken in…” Sherlock knew the voice to be Umbrael’s; it had that echoing, harp quality.

“What he did was monumental… There _are_ no other contenders left correct?”

“None. Good ladies what an awful bloodbath. Thirty dead from this contest. What if _he_ comes back...?”

“Really Umbraekmaehrezz? We did far more than Mr. Drakkus could ever dream and against a far greater number

Their conversation grew quieter and Sherlock went about his business of getting ready for the day ahead of him. He felt a flutter of mischievous joy at the thought of experiments involving magic and playing eldritch pranks with his haughty big brother and Britain’s Supreme Umbrella _definitely_ deserved payback for knocking him out for 16 hours. _First thing’s survival magic, then the fun can begin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will see Sherlock learning how to get a better grip on his abilities via lessons with his Majesty the Supreme Mage.


	4. Tug-Of-War With The Settee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock practices magic with Mycroft then Umbrael takes a different approach to learning.

The first thing Mycroft had him work on was _focus_. Which meant focus on his own emotions and trains of thought which proved to be more difficult than solving, oh say, the average triple homicide or something similar. In fact, it took the better part of an hour and Sherlock relished in the fact that his brother’s patience had started simmering at least twice. Then there’d been Phase 1 of a basic magical ability, telekinesis.

“Here observe what I’m doing,” Mycroft said after the new Investigator of London managed to levitate a tea cup for three seconds before it fell breaking into dozens of pieces. “Use all of your senses brother mine, as a mage with a veritable well spring of magic you should have at least six.”

“Six?!” If Sherlock had been a cat his ears would’ve been pinned back and he would’ve hissed in the lofty annoyance they managed to convey. “You never mentioned I have _at least_ six senses! What are these additional senses and how many are possible for a mage?”

He wasn’t going to ask _how_ having extra senses. If magic was real then having more than the standard five seemed highly probable. _So much material for experiments. I wonder if there’s body parts of all the species available somewhere._

The thought of experiments extraordinaire sparked a flare of excitement that he tried to suppress- _for now-_ so he could focus on what Mycie was saying.

“In addition to the usual five, which you might find more heightened, there’s also what’s called proximity sense. It’s based on the mind like smell is to the nose. It tells us what we’re facing, be it a werewolf, a faerie, or a solar. Then, because you’re also London’s Investigator, you should also soon be able to determine how many people both preternatural and not are in the city and where they are.”

“Werewolves and faeries, I can understand, but what the fuck is a solar?” Sherlock shook his head in exasperation. He was really starting to regret all the times he’d called folklore rubbish. Not that he’d ever say any of this out loud of course.

“Solars are what religions call sun god/goddesses and their descendants. Different cultures, however, the beings themselves are of the same species and thus the same goes for their descendants,” Mycroft decoded with a perfectly nonchalant expression. They could’ve been talking about the traffic. “For example: Amaterasu has approximately 2000 descendants, Ra has…513 according to the last census…Sherly?”

Said detective was biting his lips in elation and no small amount of frustration. There was obviously a mountain of information awaiting his scrutiny that he was anxious to lunge at and now knowing that gods were apparently real wasn’t helping.

“No, brother mine.” Mycroft’s smooth voice carried reassurance over to him. “Gods aren’t real, as far as we know. Only that the most powerful of us can qualify as being god-like and have been labelled as such by more ordinary humans.”

_That_ piqued Sherlock’s interest as well as earning his brother a snort from Umbrael who’d since turned back into an umbrella. He wondered how powerful his brother truly was. If he’d been innately powerful enough to garner Sherrinford’s tutelage who was apparently an all-mighty mage according to umbrella-faerie who could be older than London…well it added up to an impressive conclusion. Before he could launch another siege of curiosity Mycroft held up his hands.

“Ah! Not right now brother mine,” he said to mollify his young brother. “Lessons first _then_ you can ask me as many questions as you want.”

The budding magical investigator nodded with a dramatic sigh.

“Shall I try again, or should I perform a head stand instead?” Sherlock grumbled as he gestured to the shards of the ex-teacup which were suddenly pulled towards the centre of impact. He realized he could _feel_ the magic reconnecting and somehow knew it was coming from the elder Holmes. In his mind’s eye Sherlock saw the progression of magic: the shards were put back together, the cracks healed by time reversing itself only in the immediate area of the cup, and then the fixed teacup would be levitated back onto the table. Awe made his mouth drop when his vision became a reality in front of him.

It took him a moment to realize this might’ve been an additional sense Mycroft had been referring to. The closest thing he could describe it was his deduction ability on witchy steroids. It wasn’t just deducing the outcome it was being aware of the magic involved. What it was going to do and how. The realisation hit him like a lightning bolt on a perfectly sunny day. 

“You said I should have at least 6 senses correct?”

“Yes.” His brother already knew what had happened. “It appears you’ll have seven.”

_Good god, how the hell does anyone handle_ seven _senses all cramming input into their brains?_

“And yes, I would like for you to try to levitate the cup for one whole minute.” Sherlock groaned dragging a hand through his curls. This was going to take a while.

By the time noon rolled around Mycroft had gone downstairs to prepare lunch. On Sherlock’s end, he had managed to not only levitate the teacup for an entire minute, but also the chair his brother had been sitting on, his brother, and the four-poster bed. Sherlock was in the process of moving the monstrosity of blankets and a mattress when crackling sound edged into his perception. By process of elimination he knew the source of the sound. It stung him that his new senses didn’t seem to work with Umbrael.

_Is it because of how Sherrinford saved them? Is it because they’re possibly the oldest living being in the entire British Isles? Or is it because they use an entirely different type of magic than mages?_ The investigator shook his head. If he genuinely wanted to inspect this world, he’d have enough to puzzles to last at least a decade. He turned 145 degrees to face the ancient being whose spiky hair reminded him of the ribs of storm smashed umbrellas.

It was strange really. How much life could change in a week. How often had he seen Mycroft carrying his umbrella like some people carry purses and never once suspected there’d been something out of the ordinary about it? Well…he’d thought the accessory was a gun or a sword, however if someone had asked him last week if he thought that there was any possibility that the umbrella was actually a living being he’d have called the police to take the person to the nearest hospital. Now he was watching a faerie going by Umbrael (talk about a name being on the nose) glance at his magical maneuvering with those mood ring eyes.

“Your progress is interesting.”

“Shut up!” Sherlock growled as his magic propelled the bed another ten centimetres. If there was a non-magical human observer it would’ve made for a disconcerting tableau: the detective standing stock still while his eyes were locked onto a piece of furniture hovering while shifted at a snail’s pace. To the young Holmes it was strenuous albeit soothing at the same time. _Is it a paradox?_ His fanning out from him felt like cool silk brushing against his skin. The sensation alleviated some of the strain that seemed bone deep. Sherlock groaned; he needed help. How the hell had he created a space-time tunnel half-asleep, but he was shoddy at elementary telekinesis?

He dove into his Mind Palace where a replica of his brother awaited him in a room he must’ve created subconsciously. It was a cavernous room with a high ceiling anointed with a full chem lab, a telescope, and a corner conservatory. Mind-Mycroft straightened his posture before tilting his head to Sherlock, his question plain as day. _Paying attention, brother mine? Good, now listen…please._

The detective nodded and the older Holmes began reciting his instructions in a concise, clinical manner. _Imagine you or someone else is moving the bed in your mind. In your mind go through the entire process and try, if possible, to feel like you are the mover or the bed itself. Practice makes perfect and like all tasks, if repeated enough, even magic will work in the same way as muscle memory._

Sherlock departed his Mind Palace and entered the present with that lesson at the forefront of his mind. He observed the bed and noted with a surge of pride that he’d managed to keep it afloat while he’d been stalking his brain for data. The smile that had threatened to move into facial muscles was swept away however when the faerie decided to speak up.

“Planning on moving it any day now. Or should we try something else?”

The mage twirled around to find Umbrael watching him, his eyes resembling dancing flames. “What would you suggest I try?’

“Not _you_ try.” Umbrael propelled themself from the wall which they’d been leaning. “ _We_ try.”

Sherlock observed their deliberate pace which ceased not half a metre from him. Something coiled in his stomach at the faerie’s presence even as his brain suddenly wanted to fly off to poet-land. It puzzled him, but the investigator shoved it aside to focus what the immortal was saying.

“...ford and I used to play Tug-Of-War among other games. Once he began developing his magic we took to those same games albeit with…” Umbrael’s lips curled into a nostalgic smile. “…a magical component.”

Sherlock snorted. “You’d win!”

“Would I?” The heart shaped face tilted inquisitively. “Come on, Sherl! Give it a try…”

The faerie’s eyes flashed a moon bright silver as they circled in front of him. “How about this: if we play and you win, I’ll get you enough body parts to last you a year.”

“And if you win?” Sherlock’s gaze was locked onto Umbrael’s every movement. The memories of the old folktales his mother used to read to him were waking up. Each tale telling of the treachery of the Fair Folk and their Gordian Knot deals screamed at him to be careful-and he did his best to ignore them.

The beautiful being paused in their circuit then swiftly turned to pierce him with radiant, silver eyes with a smile sharp enough to cut.

“I’ll let you know what I want from you, if anything.” Sherlock returned that scalpel grin with one of his own. It was an amateur attempt to wound his pride, but it still managed to grate on him.

“Agreed!” _I’m probably going to regret this. “_ You choose the game and I’d appreciate it if you explain _all_ the rules.”

He could probably deduce them within a minute of the game, however that was assuming that the first round, or hell maybe the entire game, would last a minute.

Umbrael’s lips parted further revealing slightly pointed teeth before giving the room a cursory glance.

“Let’s play Tug-Of-War.” The faerie looked gleeful in a way Sherlock could only define as badass. Suddenly they turned away walking to the doorway then threw a stare over their shoulder. “Shall we adjourn to the library?”

He had to admit Mycroft’s library was well appointed. Three of the walls were laden with shelves weighed down with volumes alphabetically ordered. In the middle of the room was late nineteenth century leather sofa with an antique sheen.

Umbrael stalked around the room assessing the settee. Sherlock couldn’t help noting that their grey eyes slowly changed until their irises sported bright pink and prairie green. _Do all the fey have mood ring eyes?_

“We’ll pay Tug-Of-War…with Mycroft’s beloved sofa.” The young mage threw a scowl in the faerie’s direction which was roundly ignored.

So he tried again. “What if we destroy it? I doubt dear brother would be thrilled if it was.”

It was truly worth sounding like an idiot for the expression on the part-time umbrella’s face. That ageless, gorgeously androgynous being’s eyebrows were scrunched up, their eyes squinting at him, and they bit their bottom lip on the right side.

Sherlock relished that look for ten seconds before trying to salvage whatever respect Umbrael had for him.

“I’m sure he could rescue his sofa from any and all damage we’ll do to it. He wouldn’t be much of Supreme Mage if he can rescue a teacup, but not his roosting spot.”

“Ehhhhh…yes. And if he couldn’t, I could.” Once again, the detective marveled at how much people unwittingly-probably not in this case-gave away by they said.

“Tug-of-War it is then!” Sherlock clapped his hands in delight. He suspected he’d lose in a landslide, but the data he’d receive from his observations would more than make up for it.

Holmes took the side opposite of the door tugging on his springs of magic as he got situated. Umbrael watched him with storm violet irises. The novice couldn’t help feeling like a fool as his preternatural exertions forced flinches and grimaces from him while the person across him looked like they couldn’t possibly get any more bored.

It wasn’t the painful twist of being seen as a halfwit, Sherlock realized as he bit his lips, his face twisting in a snarl. What was slithering through his chest nipping at his heart and eyes while forcing his jaw to clench was fury due to a revelation.

_I’m being…boring. How the fuck am I supposed to be London’s investigator of bloody magical crimes if I’m_ boring _to this bastard? How the fuck am I supposed to get payback for getting knocked out?!_

Barely a second after his vision turned wine red a sound like a bomb blast radiated from the center of the room yet he was completely unfazed by it. On an instinctual level Sherlock knew he’d been the cause of the noise and was unharmed. Though he couldn’t actually _see_ Umbrael, the detective somehow knew the faerie was almost jumping on the balls of their feet.

“I KNEW IT!”

“Knew what you-?”

“Emotional triggers-Mycroft’ll explain it better than me.” Sherlock turned his head sharply in the direction where he sensed his opponent. Their voice had started out jovial, but there’d been the slightest slip of pain towards the end.

_Interesting._ Sherlock promptly filed away the response into his Mind Palace. His vision abruptly cleared, and the detective smiled like the Cheshire Cat. Hell, he felt like purring.

There, where the settee was once, was a walnut sapling a metre tall. It lorded over the library now strewn with bits of leather and further from him…

_I don’t know how I did it, but I like it._ Umbrael was pinned to the wall by brass pins-he deduced that the pins were the transformed buttons of the sofa-and an arsenic flame blue vine with midnight thorns. The faerie indulged him for twenty-seven seconds then rescued themself by turning into some opalescent liquid, then solidifying in front of the sapling. It didn’t seem to bother the shape shifter that they left their black jacket behind.

“Best of three rounds?” Sherlock felt giddy like the more normal child on Christmas morning. 

“Yeah, can you turn it back?” Holmes’ enthusiasm was thoroughly dampened. He’d learn though, he swore to himself he’d figure out to reverse… _bigger_ situations.

Umbrael’d set everything back to how it was before with no flourish, not a single gesture. The second round was much more controlled; his vision stayed clear and the detective’s flow of magic far more stable. It was this round that he observed the faerie’s brand. While Sherlock employed telekinesis Umbrael launched a variety of techniques. He witnessed the faerie manipulate the air in the room creating a mini rainstorm to making every surface slick, turn the floorboards into a veritable forest floor on his side, and finally create a portal underneath the settee. It almost pissed the detective off, however his opponent lectured him as they performed each stunt.

“Will I be able to do _all_ of that?” Sherlock asked pensively. His nose had detected a growing aroma emanating from Umbrael as the settee fell into the maelstrom of the magic.

“Please remember Sherlock I’m a faerie and thus have a different… _species_ of magic.” The sofa reappeared a metre away from Holmes. “Ahh…shitty answer. For clarification I not only have a different form than you, I’m _vastly_ older and more experienced than you are _and_ connected to an entire country.”

“So no.”

“You might be able to, but mages primarily enchant objects to work for them. Some of have even used dolls… _creepy shits_ …. anyway! Mages aren’t limited to enchants, but to use unadulterated magic on a higher level will take time.”

“Then how I was able to?”

“Emotional triggers are amazing tools!” Umbrael’s lips twisted into a snarl at some thought. “Though they produce unreliable results. Round 3?”

Sherlock was flat on his back exhausted when Mycroft appeared standing over him. For the briefest moment, his brother’s features were distorted as if he were in water, however the blurriness was gone by the next breath.

The older Holmes helped him up to his feet when he observed that Umbrael was nowhere to be seen. Mycroft glanced at the pile of ashes where the settee used to be with a grimace before his stare narrowed. Sherlock noted with interest that Mycroft’s eyes didn’t seem to change colour with the use of magic as the settee was reconstructed. He wondered if the eyes changing colour meant something about the type used until his brother turned back to him.

“Lunch is ready, brother mine.” Sherlock was simultaneously drained and delighted. Lunch with his brother sounded like the most beautiful and utterly relaxing thing in the world after _that_ bloody round.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for the late update I got sick this past weekend. I'm planning on having the next chapter up in three weeks' time.


	5. A Lesson in Campy Magic Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft tries to teach Sherlock more magic with partial success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a shorter chapter and the next chapter looks like it will be from Mycroft's POV.

Lunch had started off as a quiet affair with them dining on Cornish hen, wild rice, and an assortment of fruits and vegetables Sherlock recognized from a trip to the Far East. However, if there was one thing particularly hated by the detective it was tranquility. So, he figured he would start chipping at it.

“How many of these…supernatural species are there?”

“On Earth?” Mycroft looked up from his goblet of orange juice with a flicker of a grin. He knew what his little brother wanted. “There are eight: banshees, djinn, faeries, gargoyles, some mages, solars, vampires, and werewolves. Then there’s a lot of what we call Stand Alones or anidi bicha which is Amharic for…”

“For ‘only one,’” Sherlock watched as the elder Holmes’ eyes squinted into a look of bedeviled peevishness. “You said ‘some mages’. Why are only some mages considered separate from humans? I’m a mage, but I’m still human! Am I?”

“Yes, you are.” A wave of nauseous disappointment crashed over the younger Holmes as his brother explained. “However, humanity can be taken away and sometimes, in the case of the First, humanity was never an option to begin with.”

“The First, called the Queen of Myth and Eternity by the more fanciful, came from a different world-not the same planet as the faeries and the banshees-a different one.” If the lights dimmed and they scuttled off to Mycroft’s living room with blankets and hot cocoa Sherlock would believe he was a child again and his brother was going to read a bedtime novel written by Stephen Hawking. Alas, the lights weren’t even on because it was half past noon and Mycroft was actually serious about this. “She’s not human. If the studies prove to be correct in their hypothesis then she’s actually the reason why there’s werewolves and vampires…”

His brother glanced at him. Probably to see if he was still awake.

“The portal she created to get here fractured the particles and dimensions throughout the entire planet. It took millennia to correct itself.”

Sherlock responded with something noncommittal when what he really wanted to say was more akin to a Niagara Falls’ worth of expletives.

“What’s next on my lesson plan, brother?”

“Tunneling, teleporting, enchanting, and then tracking.” Mycroft leaned back regarding the spread in between them. “Are you done eating?”

“Yes.” The detective watched fascinating as his brother snapped his fingers barely a second after which the table was perfectly clean and in there was a low thrum of a dishwasher turning on.

In the next instant the Supreme Mage of Great Britain was suddenly standing by the door leading to his basement watching his little brother with eyes like titanium.

“Ready?”

Tunneling was easier than he’d thought it would be. Mycroft’d decided that he would call out a room in the house then have Sherlock tunnel there.

It felt- _amazing_. The tunnels the younger Holmes created weren’t like Umbrael’s hell storms either. It was gentler; waves of pale, arctic blue magic cascaded from his body to form what looked like an early spring fog.

Once Sherlock stepped into though the external world looked how he remembered it from the other night. The paneling on the walls were blurry and the stone flooring reflected light like it was submerged underwater. Being in the structure sober also made him highly aware of the shifts in perception: in one spot it could be approximately 9 degrees Celsius then in the next 24 degrees Celsius. It was puzzling and Sherlock loved puzzles, especially those that appeared to be inexplicable.

_It’s amazing, but I need to figure out to experiment with magic. I need-no want-to figure out how this works!_

The younger Holmes strode out of the fourth tunnel he made to flop down on an ornate chair next to where Mycroft was leaning over a replica of Greater London.

Or so he thought until his brother tapped a finger against the Shard at which the city suddenly dissolved leaving a grey stone surrounded by multi-coloured dirt. Another tap and the dirt shifted, twisted, and changed until they were looking at Liverpool.

“Let me guess…” The elder Holmes turned halfway to watch him as he formed his hypothesis. “An enchantment? I thought teleporting was next.”

“Yes, it is an enchantment,” Mycroft answered smoothly. “It was gift Sherrinford gave me after my nineteenth birthday. Ready for teleportation or would you rather learn how to enchant something first?”

Sherlock felt that he’d rather just learn everything instantaneously. He managed to teleport once before how difficult could it be?

“Do I pass with flying colours, Mycie?” The budding mage asked after teleporting from the study to the kitchen and back again.

“Yes but give yourself time.” His brother was scowling at him like he’d eaten the biscuit Mycroft wanted during Christmas dinner. “You have the weekend to read up and practice on your own. Your time as London’s Investigator of Magical Crimes is whatever happens. You might have a whole month of nothing magical to solve!”

_That sounds like a worse time than Dante’s journey. Or is it? More time for experiments._ There were definitely pros and cons to each scenario, but the new Investigator figured he could solve thirty such crimes in a month.

“Read for Enchantment 101?” Mycroft smiled when Sherlock responded with a disgruntled groan.

His brother held up the grey stone Sherrinford gifted him for Sherlock’s inspection.

“Use _all_ of your senses then tell me what you gleaned from this.” Mycroft tossed him the rock and the detective caught it immediately after which his fingers caressed the surface. He made an estimate as to its mineral composition: chert with a fern fossil on the underside. It was also a lot heavier than he’d thought it would be. If he was correct in his calculations it was 100 grams heavier than it should be.

To sight, smell, and taste there was nothing out of the ordinary. The only senses of his that showed something out of the ordinary were his newer ones.

“What the hell is this?” Sherlock tossed the stone back to the elder Holmes. “It’s not actually a stone, or at least that’s not what it’s been for…I don’t know, but I’m going to guess 20 years if it was really for your nineteenth birthday.”

“It is a grey rock, but it’s an _enchanted…_ Lock, stop laughing…” Sherlock delighted in watching Mycroft succumb to a giggle fit. His brother’s response had driven Lock to tears of laughter and now the giggle bug caught his icy statue of a sibling.

That pretty much concluded their lesson in enchantments and teleporting devolved into Hide-In-Seek in Belgravia.

Sherlock rarely felt so grateful to throw himself into his own bed. He had the weekend to study and his brother had said something about meeting his teammates and/or going through the actual office that came with the position.

_I don’t know what’s fucking worse meeting people I probably won’t need after the first day or going through an office someone else organized, decorated…with my luck it’s going to be all heinous pastels. Or the sodding 70s look._

Sherlock shucked off his clothes and curled up in the silk blankets. The younger Holmes didn’t usually like sleeping, but if it made the most anticipated Monday of his entire life seem to arrive sooner then he’d do it.

Of course, it was when the young man realized he’d forgotten something important ( _How!?)_ that sleep found him.


	6. Icy Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft tries to talk to Sherrinford and ends up talking to Lestrade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of stuff going on here and I will try to have the next chapter up in two weeks time!

Mycroft waited until his brother left to access his office. The Supreme Mage of Great Britain turned his head up to focus on the space in front of him then reached inside of his mind to drag up the insignia of the position. The elder Holmes’ felt his magic respond by surging and replicating the image in air a meter off the ground. Almost immediately a deep, groaning sound resonating from the spot and the portal was complete.

Without wasting another moment, the mage strode forward and entered the near 1600-year-old abode and/or office that the Supreme Mages of these isles traditionally kept. When he’d first moved in Mycroft’d found it to be vastly outdated and promptly renovated the structure, but he’d kept the vast majority of the artifacts. The ones he gave away he’d teleported to some archaeological site for some lucky toothbrush wielder to find.

_Far too valuable to simply shove to the side,_ Mycroft noted as he caught sight of a jar once owned by the actual Merlin that another one of his predecessors had stuffed with peacock feathers tied with human-looking hair. _It is human hair of someone who used to bathe-often compared to the average person in that era. Magically preserved for the past 800 years at least._

The auburn-haired mage admired the relics for two more seconds before resuming his march towards his other study. Mycroft strode up two flights of turquoise stairs with steel railing where he came upon the destination: The Scrying Study. It was one of the most heavily enchanted rooms in the office: the ceiling bore a moving painting of the solar system with Pluto and even the Oort Cloud, the most up-to-date globe he could find levitated at chest level, and the best flat-screen money could buy in a corner. Except this screen could be turned on and show him 221 Baker Street, his house, or one of the Prime Minister’s meetings. There were even scrying books where the interactions were written into a novel.

Divination was a sham, but scrying…now _that_ was a real art. It was like Yahoo Maps, but far more accurate and provided real-time viewing of places even the tech giants couldn’t get to.

_Like the wilds of Bhutan._ The Supreme Mage wished his great-great-uncle would stop by and help one of his nephews prepare for being the bloody Investigator of London’s Magical Crimes. _He knows what’s happened here! He still cares or else he wouldn’t have taught me. Why doesn’t he want to help Lock? He was the most successful magical investigator for nigh on fifty years!_

Mycroft made his way towards the globe, his fingers trailing it as magic flared out from him in a blue nimbus. The room brightened until it looked like the roof was gone and the sun was directly overheard.

The globe started spinning with blue sparks of magic tearing across then froze over-the mage peered closer-Trongsa, east of Thimphu.

_He’s taking a long time traveling through Bhutan…why?_ Mycroft stepped away going through everything he knew of the tiny, mountainous nation. It was quiet, relatively peaceful, and there was plenty of unique fauna and flora. _C_ _ould he be studying something there? Or just want to be close to nature and far away from Britain as possible?_

It was very possible; Sherrinford had grown increasingly remote due to the side effects of the spell-work to save his older brother. Mycroft wiped his brow as he recalled all too well the incidents during his apprenticeship when he’d stayed with the eclectic half-fae mage. _The bloody screams…._

The Supreme Mage shook his head. If Sherrinford came back it was going to be on his own schedule and no point wasting further time trying to settle on a date.

_What else needs attention?_ The Holmes only needed a moment to remember that Detective Lestrade was dealing with at least eleven corpses with cause of death being magic. He felt a wave of emotions which the elder Holmes couldn’t help rolling his eyes over. There was so much to do, and it wouldn’t hurt to drop by Sherlock’s soon-to-be coworker.

Mycroft’s irises flared with crackling, indigo energy before there was a resounding _crack._

The first thing he saw was Lestrade leaning over a table in the morgue. This particular table was laden with what appeared to be a teenager with an orange rose sprouting through her mouth. Even from this distance he could see the officer’s hunched shoulders shaking with barely suppressed pain.

Mycroft found himself rooted to the spot in shock. He’d known there were thirty fatalities from the contest, but he remembered explicitly demanding that no minors being allowed.

_So why the fuck did one end up on a slab? I told every single bloody person no one below the age of 17 was allowed to participate. Even then, the Committee had it down that those who between 17 and 40 were to be disabled,_ not _killed!_

The Supreme Mage beat back his emotional reactions as he reached out with his magic to gather more information from the poor girl’s corpse. It took another strain of energy to make sure Lestrade wasn’t alerted to his presence-yet. The eldritch man wanted to give him time enough to emotionally adjust then collect himself.

Mycroft had deduced that: the girl had recently celebrated her 19th birthday, she’d lived in London’s East End for at least a decade, her favourite colour was lilac, and she’d entered the competition with her partner, also a woman. His magic was about to provide him more when Lestrade turned around.

The mage froze, but the gargoyle provided a brief show. He watched calmly as Lestrade leapt a full metre, cursed the stealth of mages and MI6 agents, and doubly damned the stealth of a mage who had been an agent before settling down to being the backroom ruler of Great Britain.

“Mr. Holmes,” Greg greeted the man with a nod after he’d taken a minute to calm down. “What can I do for you?”

“Checking up on how Scotland Yard is handling the murders.” Mycroft walked towards the slab only stopping when he was side-by-side with the detective. “Have their families been notified?”

“How many even signed up?” Lestrade asked his features pained as his eyes lingered on the closed slabs on the walls. “We found 12 with roses, including Aaliyah Nyekundo here and her girlfriend.”

“Thirty. Well- “

“Let me guess.” Greg turned to face him eyes glittering with a playfulness that all the malice in London still hadn’t managed to douse. “Sherlock’s the new Investigator?”

Mycroft didn’t bother asking him how he knew. Even if the man wasn’t friends with half the committee, he’d been with Sherlock every step in the investigation into the twelve, headline making homicides.

“Yes…”

“Molly and I will be working with him? He still wants us like the last one did?” Greg’s brows shot up even as his eyes narrowed skeptically.

“I didn’t really give him a choice,” Mycroft huffed. “He’s powerful, but he still needs _time_ for heaven’s sake! You two are the only ones I trust to look after him and Sherlock…well….he knows you two. Far better than Faustine or the others.”

“So! Thirty dead and how has it been going?”

Greg’s eyes probed him with an intensity that would make most people either freeze or jittery with the desire to bolt from the room.

Finally, finding that Mycroft was one hundred percent serious and actually wanted to help, Greg responded with a tad of steel in his voice.

“Serial killer-killed in a confrontation with a detective. Serial killer was buying roses then shoving them down victims’ throats-the damn committee owes me a year long paid vacation for this-and, in answer to your question, no.”

His brown eyes glittered with silent stars as his gaze travelled from the poor girl to the Supreme Mage.

“We’ve only found 12 corpses and Molly and I found possibly seven bodies destroyed beyond recognition. Markus’ corpse was burned by the Committee leaving ten bodies unaccounted for. How the fuck are we going to tell their families? Leave them as missing persons?”

“The Committee has a list and they’ll give it to us,” Mycroft replied as he made each slab slide open with a gesture.

He hated this part. Notifying the families. Some of the dead were loners so that was easy, but there was always a substantial number who’d had extensive friend groups or close-knit families. The latter usually had no idea their relation was even a mage, let alone one that knowingly entered a lethal version of King-of-the-Hill. The ones that did know though…Mycroft usually felt like screaming at them. Right now he certainly felt like screaming at himself, especially know that he knew the extent of Markus’ savagery and willingness to break the rules. But there was something about this whole that smelled worse than rotten eggs and something he wanted to deal with ASAP.

“What I also want to know is what the fuck was going on that a teenager was allowed to be killed? Did the Committee even know?!” Mycroft’s voice didn’t rise in anger-it got colder. The temperature in the room plummeted until they could see their breath mingling. Belatedly the mage realized his words were being written in frost on the walls of the morgue. “Did Moliette know and _that’s_ why Markus tried to kill her or did he _think_ she knew?”

Throughout his seething river of questions Lestrade’s jaw increasingly lowered as his eyes widened then contracted.

“Look, I’m just your average gargoyle and even I know that having a competition that’s fucked up even by the usual standards means there’s going to be hell to pay.”

“And before you ask, yes I knew something was going to shit since last week.” Greg pointed at an a slab in the far right towards the top. Mycroft can immediately see the body it holds is lighter than most and the only feature he can make out from this angle is the blonde hair. “Two minors were killed. You said you only allow people over the age of 17, but Katie there…she was fucking 16 Mycroft!”

The Supreme Mage felt blood drain from his face. He was grateful that Lestrade’s eyes were on the slabs instead of his whitening knuckles. _Fuck, Fuck, Fuck!_

His brother hadn’t even started his first day and already they were looking at a possible conspiracy or someone losing their magical touch with deadly consequences. Mycroft felt like disposing of someone-preferably the squeaky wheel-in an efficient manner.

_First the families and then I’ll find out what the hell is going on and who needs to be punished._ The mage’s thoughts darted towards Sherlock and wondered if he should bring him into this mess. After all, the mess led to his baby brother being instated as High Investigator of London and might be target. That train of thought summoned fear that rolled him over like a tsunami would a car until he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“We need to get Sherlock involved. He deserves to know everything that’s going on.”

“I know.” His voice sounded like a water clogged cello as he forced himself to go to each body. He shriveled each of the roses and desperately tried to _not_ imagine Sherlock with a flower unfurling as it left his mouth, red with his blood.


End file.
